Stellar Crossings
by LeCastor
Summary: A selection of scenes from the Silmarillion, revisited, placed in Chronological order. Work in Progress, new chapters may be incomplete at times. Feat the House of Finwe. More chapters to come. PLEASE REVIEW :D?
1. Caranthir comes of age

It was one of those days. Caranthir - Moryo, then, was barely into his teens. His mind was bent on the task. If he succeded at this, maybe something good would come out of it. Maybe he would be allowed to have his sword, at long last.

It was late. Turko, at the same age, had already got his. The only reason Ata was taking so much time in giving Moryo the chance to prove himself. The chance to be a real warrior was an honor the youth coveted like the awful Melkor would covet the Silmarils. He didn't lack courage, true. He didn't lack skill. What he lacked, was control.

From the moment he'd been able to walk, Moryo had been a dark-hearted child. He had hatred, true, for a lot of things, but he had love as well, tainted in jealousy for what he cared about the most.

There was a reason he ever despised his little cousin Angarato. It was simple. He was jealous. Deep down, he knew that Angarato Angamaite deserved to be loved as he was by the family. Hell. Even Carnistir the Dark relished him - and for some reason, he ever expressed it with in angrier spats than usual, almost taking vicious pleasure in tormenting the blond cousin. He perhaps thought that his own spats of anger outweighed what he called his cousin's "Unbearable Fuzziness." Maybe he thought that in his own, twisted way, he was participating in bringing him to a more balance way of looking at life.

Carnistir fancied himself a realist. It was a lie, like many other things, though it would become truer as he grew more seasoned, more weathered. Few things brought him joy - simply enough, he felt unloved. His father favored Kurvo. His mother favored his little brothers Ambarussa. Maitimo was ever the reasonable, calm brother who kept everyone in line, and Moryo was only the troublemaker, picking fights by boredom, angering who he could. He only ever felt truly happy in the midst of a good fist fight - something Findekano, perhaps did not share, as the beatings were repeated and painful. Of course, that also strained his relationship with his oldest brother. Doubtless, there was jealousy there as well.

It wasn't that Caranthir had no love for his family. In fact, he loved them more than was healthy. Too much, too intensely. It was a blessing that the little brothers were close to him - even if there were things he never quite understood, he was in the right place with Pytio and Telvo. With them, it was right - they were a well-functioning unit, based on teasing and protection. It was then that Carnistir was at his best - he was a true big brother. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that the twins tolerated him for being overbearing. Something that he was grateful for, even though he never said it - it was self-evident in the way he doted on them.

This all came together into one sole truth - the crux of the matter was, Caranthir was dark-souled because he wanted to be loved, to be accepted. He was dark-souled because his hunger for life was too great, and his loyalty to his family, too powerful. Nothing else mattered, but to be a son of Feanaro. Nothing mattered, but to be a Prince of the Noldor, and to be proud of the craft of his father, and of the beauty for the Noldorin women. He wanted to make them proud in turn, to be the best fighter there was. Such was his ambition, but he lacked control.

It was blood lust. It was the eagerness to battle. It was the delightful, inebriating sound of steel as it sang, as it clashed. It was the joy of slicing and dicing. When he was in battle, he fell to the gaiety of the situation, unleashed his own self-loathing and hatred, and projected it on his opponent - and there, he ripped to shreds the avatar of his own inexistent self-confidence.

That was the crux of the matter. And so he learned to project this onto inanimate objects - being a rampaging beast was costly, and though there was growing guilt for every decapitated adversary, that only fed his own self-digust, and in turn, it endangered the only thing that truly mattered: family.

When the time came, he would be ready. When the time came, he would be able to remain calm, at least in appearance. When the time came, he would withstand the test - if he could expulse all that was searing him inside, by anticipation.

There was a place where he'd prepared his own training ground. It was now a field of distruction, and the young Elf stood, sweaty and at peace, black hair lost in the dwindling winds of Valinor. He was ready.

Feanaro came. As always, Carnistir bowed to his father.

"Are you ready, my son?"

"I am ready, Ata. I will make you proud."

His father held the sword to him, by the blade. Moryo's hand fastened on the hilt with a practiced grip.

Moryo executed the complex figure - moving to a dance of circular movements, he demonstrated control that was uncanny for him. His father unsheathed his own sword, and without warning, charged.

The clang of steel resounded in the lonely plain of Valinor. The smile on Carnistir's face was a bit mad.

"So this is the test you would have me take, Ata."

Feanor did not reply - his movements were precise, deadly. His son moved in unison - to fight the man he adulated, that was the ultimate test. To fight him with uncanny skill, to be ready, if he had to, to strike to kill.

He knew his father expected no less, and when the bite of steel came to his thigh, he retaliated without even a second thought, barely missing his father's throat by a hair's width.

Feanor skipped easily out of his reach, and laughed, darkly. He dropped his weapon and waited, clearly expecting his son to charge his unharmed parent.

Caranthir's face was a fierce mask of battlement. His grip on the sword was strong - his knuckles were white. He looked at his father, and for a moment time stood still.

One.

Two.

Three.

At a sluggish pace, the hold on the sword's hilt loosened. The weapon fell on the green carpet of the glade silently.

Wordlessly, Feanor picked it up and gave it to his son.

Caranthir never parted with it for long, ever after.


	2. For Three Strands of Hair

Celegorm was sitting under a tree, in Valinor. Not under Celeborn or Telperin, but under one of those beautiful Mallorns which were so beloved of Yavanna's. He was dreaming - daydreaming. In his mind, figures danced, black and blond hair commingled, and desires, untold and unknown, surfaced, mixed between the light-haired girl and the other one with the raven locks.

They both wore white, but it must have been his imagination. Artanis was so young, still, barely a woman, still so very much of a girl, and still going by her Mother-name, Nerwendë, still tomboyish and reckless, and proud. Barely older than her was Ireth, so girlish and feminine, never in anything but her white and silver robes, even in the glory of hunting, even as she took down one of Oromë's stags with a single, perfectly-aimed blow.

One was easy to talk to, the other was not. One he'd kissed, one he hadn't. One he'd dreamed of marrying, the other, he wanted to run away with, and be free. He was torn.

Nerwendë was well into her teens, still disobeying her mother and father, climbing trees and running free in Valinor, dreaming of far-away places. She sat atop the tree, hidden in the foliage. She listened. She knew. The older cousin was changing - she felt it. She was changing too. His father had asked her for three strands of her hair, that very morning. She`d refused violently, and ran away.

When Tyelkormo's eyes were closed, and he was apparently lost in his phantasmagoric delusions, she landed softly from the tree, at his feet. She sat silently, waiting.

Feeling a sudden presence, he opened his eyes with a start. "Eru, Artanis. Don't you people know to announce yourselves?"

You people. You, of the line of Finarfin. You, women. Whatever that meant.

"What, has Angàrato been doing the same to you?" Her smirk is amused, but also a bit superb. She hates when he calls her Artanis.

"No," Tyelko replied with a grumpy shrug. "Oh, never mind."

She snickered to herself, and leaned against him, a little.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist, I guess." She sighed. "I just wish I didn't have to hide. Promise you won't tell anyone you've seen me."

He looked at her, point-blank. "Who are you hiding from?"

She looked at her feet. This was going to be painful.

"Your Ata."

He paused, let that bit of information register, as he looked at her blankly. "Why are you avoiding my Ata?"

Oh, great, she thought, he's not aware of this brand new fun stuff. Just great. Oh, Yavanna, why me? She sighed again, and turned to look at him. "He wants my hair."

Tyelkormo made a confused face. "Your hair?"

"My hair." And maybe also something else that you want too, she thought, a bit frustratedly. She wasn't sure if she felt strongly about Turco to want to be mated to him. She liked him very much, though, cared for him. She'd never quite felt that strange little twinge of desire she'd experienced at times looking at Findekano as he sparred, or at Teleporno, when she visited her mother's kin in Alqualondë.

Tyelkormo looked at Nerwendë with evident confusion. "Why would he want your hair?"

"I don't know, I mean, it's odd, isn't it? But I feel that if I give it to him, ill will come of it," she replied miserably.

"I understand. How much hair did he want?" Tyelko asked, expecting perhaps that his father was asking for too much, and that this was a female's caprice.

"Three strands," she replied absently - she already expected what would happen next.

"Three strands? What ill could come of three strands of your hair, Art– Nerwendë? I mean, Ata's the best smith in the known world, the pride of the Noldor, so why wouldn't you grant his wish?"

She fiddled with her hair nervously. "I just know I should not," she replied seriously, with eyes looking straight at him, wise beyond her years. "I love you so much, and if I give it to him, things will happen, things that will drive us apart, things that will make you miserable, and me too!" There was a piece of despair in the way she spoke that made him still in his lunging argumentation.

"What things?"

"I don't know, I can't tell you," she said miserably. "It's all mixed up in my head, all confused, but if they happen, it will be terrible, terrible, and" — she paused, looked at him despairingly. "Promise me that you won't take any oaths, ever. Promise me."

Because then maybe ... maybe if Celegorm promised, he would not go to Beleriand. Maybe he would not betray Ingoldo, or pursue Lùthien, or be killed by Dior in Doriath. Maybe the dreams would stop. Maybe she would stop hating him secretly for things he hadn't done yet. Maybe she would stop hating Uncle Feanàro and maybe she would be able to look at her brothers without tearing up. Maybe she would be able to love Findekàno without knowing that he would die.

"Never ever? That's silly, Artanis."

He stood, almost angry in the way he looked at her. "You're implying that oath-taking is the source of all evil. I will not be unmanned by a promise to you. I'm sorry."

She bit her lip, sadly, not even throwing a sharp reply not to call her that.

"Then so be it. I'm sorry, Tyelkormo."

He stood and left, and so did she. She took two steps, and turned back. She only saw his silhouette, walking in the distance. Her lips parted to call her friend back, but her voice faltered. She continued, deeper into the woods, to hide, until her father would talk some sense into Feanàro. He turned around, to call, and saw her climb up a tree, disappearing into the foliage again. His raised hand fell down, and he sighed, thinking maybe he should have tried to get those three strands of hair for his father.

A moment later, he was regretting the thought and turning back to find her.

She was nowhere to be found.


	3. The Secret Parting

She was leaning on the railing of the boat - the wait was long, but he would come. The fleet of Noldoran boats was traveling close enough for such crazy feats - and so at night, when all were asleep, Ireth waited for Turkafinwë to come.

The rope would be easy swung from the mast of his boat. He would come down it with agility, and she would watch in amazement, as she did every night.

"Oh." She paused, came a step closer. "You came."

"I will always come back for you, Irisse," he replied, almost pained to hear her voice a doubt. He comes a step closer, and so does she.

"Forgive me, Melindo. It always seems so miraculous..." she bites her upper lip. He opens his arms, and in a short flutter of skirts she nestles in his warmth with a sigh. "Oh, love, I missed you. I wish we didn't have to hide this way."

He strokes her hair, tenderly, eyes resting on the quiet horizon, on the midnight waters. "Soon. When we get the Silmarils back from Morgoth, then I will have leave. I will ask your Ata for your hand."

She sighs, a little, heart beating in her chest, too fast, but she is too timid to explain. "We touch land, tomorrow."

It's said absently. He caresses her hair, and one lone tear crawls on his face.

"I know." He knows more, but he cannot tell - his loyalty to his father prevents him from telling his love what Fëanor has in mind. "Irisse..."

She looks up, at him, finds the tear gleaming in the moonlight, and smoothes it. "Aye?"

"Will you love me, no matter what happens?" He's asking with a tremor - he already feels that he doesn't deserve the answer.

"I will love you, now and until the Doom of Mandos is lifted, as I loved you then. Nothing you can do can make you lose my love," she replies with quiet faith.

His hand moves, to caress her cheek, reverently. "Irisse...." There is wind in his hair and in hers, but they don't feel the cold between the two of them. "I love you now, and I will love you until I die, and beyond. Please... never forget... I will come back for you, always."

She nods, worriedly. "I love you. I trust you. Why so sad, Melindo?"

He says nothing and holds her in his arms, tightly, burying his face in her hair. Begging for forgiveness is on his lips, and he cannot utter any of it.

The next day, they would touch Araman. The perils of Helcaraxë awaited.

None of them knew, but this was their last parting.


	4. The Candle of Grief

**Dedicated to Araloth, who poked me into writing again.**

He sat in the tent, across from his little brother.

The grief and the madness in Amrod's eyes broke him. "Hey." Caranthir's voice was quiet. The younger redhead didn't answer.

"Pytio. Look at me. Pytio. Please."

That Amras had been burnt alive was only the conclusion to which the family had come when it was all over. Amrod had been calling his brother until his voice was raw. Caranthir had roared his name, but there was not enough time, not when they had to go, not with Fingolfin's host left behind, and those ineffective cousins. Caranthir had little guilt over that part of the disaster, but he did over his little brother's death. He kept his own grief buried deep within him, focused on the remaining twin. However things may unfold, Caranthir knew that this day, he and his brothers had crossed into a territory that meant no possible return.

"What?" Amrod snarled, and looked at his brother with angry eyes.

"It's not your fault," Caranthir said quietly.

"I should have gone with him," his brother replied, staring blankly at the tent's empty canvas.

"Then you'd both be dead, and I'd be short a pair of little brothers," Caranthir said reasonably, almost soothingly, uncharacteristically gently. "It's late. Sleep."

The red head did not move, still looking blankly at the emptiness of his own mind, the silence on his brother's end, not the dark one, the youngest little one, the one with whom words were never necessary. Caranthir sighed, and hesitated a moment, before he brought a hand to Amrod's shoulder. "You lost one of us. There's still the family. Please."

He might as well have been talking to a marble statue: Amrod did not move, nor did he respond. Caranthir sighed, and leaned back in his cot. "Suit yourself," he grumbled tiredly from where he lay, before he blew the candle and closed his eyes.

Every night, for months, this scenario unfolded between the two brothers.

Every night, Caranthir said what he had to say, Amrod ignored him, and the candle was blown out.

It was the night before the Dagor-nuin-Giliath that something happened.

"It's not your fault," Caranthir said quietly.

"It is, but I can't do anything about it now, can I?" his brother replied, staring blankly at the tent's empty canvas.

"No, you can't," Caranthir replied, quietly. "But screw me sideways is you get hurt tomorrow." His tone was harsh, determined. "Brothers."

Amrod looked up, a flash of comprehension flickered in his eyes.

"I grieved too," Caranthir said quietly. "And I'm not grieving again. Sleep. You need the rest."

Again, the candle was blown, the darker elf curled up on his cot. In the darkness, for once, his little brother did not cry silently. Instead, he curled up against Caranthir, as he used to with Telvo. "Do you promise?" It was asked with almost childlike faith.

"I promise," Caranthir murmured gruffly, sleepily, but he turned and hugged his brother. The breakthrough had at long last happened.

The next day, they fought on the passes of the Ered Wethrin. The chemistry was not as good as it would have been between Amrod and Amras. Caranthir was a beast on the battlefield. He unleashed his anger on Morgoth's forces ruthlessly, without mercy, without rest, without subtlety, and with a sort of bloodthirsty joy that was unique to him. His violence was remarkable, and the beast corpses piled around him like gruesome trophies. The Light of Valinor still shone on he and his brothers, and his men fought valiantly. The orcs retreated north through Ard-galen, and the two brothers led their hosts in pursuit, with anger and force, swords bloody but still gleaming in the sun.

When another host burst from the Havens of Falas to take the Noldorin force in a pinch, Celegorm's men, who had been lagging behind, managed to trap them at Eithel Sirion. The blood bath lasted days, and in this, Caranthir revelled. Sitting on the pile of bloody trophies, he grinned in a way that was terrifying to any who did not know him.

"Ata," Amrod said breathlessly. "Where is he?"

It took Caranthir to snap out of his berserker state.

"What do you mean, where is he?" He stood and looked around, frowning.

It took a moment to round up the brothers. Someone - was it Celegorm? Curufin? Caranthir never remembered well the immediate moments that followed battle - said that the Great General had pursued the fleeing survivors in the North, and it took no time for them to set in pursuit of their father, their host in tow.

They came too late, just in time to see the armies retreat, the Balrogs, things of fire and smoke, leaving a bleeding elf, a lone monument of bitterness and agony.

Their father cursed Morgoth three times before he died. This, Caranthir remembered with painstaking exactitude.

That night, in the tent, Amrod spoke first.

"It's not your fault," he said quietly.

Caranthir gritted his teeth, and said nothing.

"Suit yourself," Amrod said before he blew out the candle and curled up in the dark./lj-cut


	5. Council in progress

One hand. Eru, that was enough lost already, wasn't it? Apparently not – it had to have been where Nelyo's brain went, too.

"What do you mean, relinquish the crown to Findekano?" Caranthir roared at the counsel table. "He's as reckless as his father. He'll lead us all straight to Morgoth, if he can."

The room became dreadfully silent. "Enough, Moryo." Maedhros' voice was quiet and firm. "You are excused."

Angrod stood, then. "Calm down, we're family, aren't we?"

"Idiot. We'll see what a happy family we are when we're all dead," he spat back, before he left, slamming the door.


	6. Blood, Victory and Conquest

The hunt was more difficult than he had expected. Celegorm had been tailing the stag for hours, felt taunted, insulted, as if the beast was refusing to give in to his own desire for blood, victory and conquest.

Thargelion. Its forests were wild, rich, haunting. He had told Curufinwë that he went to Thargelion just for that – to find rare game.

"A stag larger than you've ever seen," he insisted, eyes wide. "Moryo says it's been spotted many times on the outskirts of his realm, and that no-one ever caught the damn beast."

Curufinwë had scoffed, laughed, been overall condescending and dismissive of his brother's enthusiasm. That had only spurred Tyelko to leave Himlad for a while. He needed something to pursue, something that had four legs and not two. Take his mind off one chimera by pursuing another.

When he plunged his dagger into the stag's heart, he exulted for a short moment. Blood. Victory. Conquest.

Wasn't that what he and his brood were about? Dark thoughts.

That night, Carnistir Moryofinwë feasted him. There were some Naugrim traders in town, and so there was ale. Tyelko humored his younger brother with a pint, even if he felt no inclination for the frothy, sour drink.

"Aren't you happy, Tyelko?" Caranthir asked – but he already knew what answer to expect.

"I'm satisfied," Celegorm replied. "I guess you'll put the antlers up on your wall – keep them as a token of my visit, if you like?"

Caranthir gave him a thoughtful look and raised his mug in mock salute. "Aye aye, O great hunter."

Celegorm chuckled without humour and quaffed his ale, set his mug down. There was a moment of silence.

"You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?" Caranthir's question was rhetorical and they both knew it.

"I am," Celegorm replied, "I have business to attend to. Curufinwë writes of trouble in the North."

"Trouble in the North, my arse. But you have business to attend to alright." I'll miss you, though, he didn't say.

But he was guessing. And he didn't want to pop his brother's bubble. Caranthir took another sip and gave orders for his brother's departure.


	7. Why won't you just listen

It was after they'd gone riding again. Every time Caranthir watched his two brothers leave, he didn't take his eyes off their back, until they faded in the distance. He would play with his dice, frown to himself, wander over to Pityo's tent when Turco and Kurvo were out of sight, and he would uselessly throw the dice in the pail, over and over.

"You should say something, Moryo," Amrod would say, every time. "He won't listen, Pytio," Caranthir would reply, unfailingly.

Every time, they had this conversation. Every time, it ended in grumpy silence.

Eventually, they all separated. Caranthir found a home in Thargelion, but he always brooded, always worried about his brothers. Sometimes he would go on long, very long rides, on his own.

It was then that he came across Celegorm's party, on the road to Thargelion. He grinned, widely, then, and clasped arms with his brother. He didn't ask why he wasn't in Himlad. It didn't matter, then. Brothers were all that mattered to Caranthir, ever, and this time was no exception. If the Edain woman Haleth had considered things differently... perhaps... but he never quite fit in, he knew.

That night, Caranthir feasted his brother generously. There was Naugrim ale, there was pheasant and boar, there were lovely girls to pinch and play with, but Celegorm's heavy demeanor did not ease.

"You should come visit more often," Caranthir offered, carefully.

"I would, but Kurvo considers hunting a stupid sport," he said, tiredly.

"Kurvo's words aren't the be all end all, brother," Caranthir offered, lightly, boastfully, perhaps. "I think hunting's fun. We'll go hunting, you and I. Let's go on the morrow, stay, as long as you like. Huan can teach a thing or two about the dogs in my kennels. Stay. It will be fun."

Celegorm stayed. They spoke, a lot. About women, about life, about war, about their father and their brothers, about the cousins, about hopes and dreams. Caranthir insisted that he was his own man, that brothers mattered, but it was alright to have one's own opinions. Celegorm insisted that Kurvo was his brother, that his advice could never be wrong.

But I'm your brother too, Caranthir wanted to say. How can I always be wrong, if Curufin is always right?

The answer came in the form of a letter, months and months later. It was unbearably short.

_She came, _the letter said. _If you hadn't kept me, I would have been able to go home to find Irisse, but she waited to long and left. Eru knows where she is now.  
_  
Caranthir frowned, sighed, sent search parties to try and atone for his mistake.

Just for once, he wanted to do something right. Somehow, he never managed to do so.


	8. Bad Choices

She left Himlad with tears in her eyes. It had been hard for her, to decide, to leave Gondolin, to seek Celegorm out. Hard for her to accept that her secret lover was, at least indirectly, an accomplice to the death of her little brother. Arakàno. Sweet and secret, broody but true. Argon. Her joy whom she told all, who told her all. Ireth went without thinking about such things, or rather, with the need to speak to him, to hear an explanation. She went with the irrepressible desire to be told what had happened, and why.

The words at the gate were harsh, in Sindar, even if the warden did not mean them to be so.

"He is not here, lady."

"Not here? Where is Tyelkormo Turcafinwë, lord of Himlad. They said he ruled this place, is it not so?"

"So it is, Lady, but he has gone to Thargelion, to hunt with this brother, Caranthir."

"So I will await, then," she said, frustrated and yet still hopeful.

She crossed the gate and hopped down from her horse, white flows of silken and silver-treaded material waving around her like the arms of Ulmò.

"Who are you, Lady?" asked the steward, a stout Sindarin elf who almost scowled at her for being Noldor, and yet could not help but be reverent in front of her beauty.

"Aredhel Ar-Feinel," she replied, proud and regal in her bearing, princess from head to to.

"Come, then, and rest, until our lord comes."

She went, and rested. She waited. The season was long and the leaves of autumn colored the path. She thought of her brothers, of Turukàno and his glorious city of Gondolin, of the sweat, blood and tears he put in his secret abode, and she regretted, deep in her heart, leaving him. Had she betrayed her brothers? Her father? Was the High King's daughter betraying her family, by loving Tyelkormo, Son of Faenor? Findekàno thought so, she knew. Findekàno the stout, the brave, the constant. Her serious older brother. She loved him, though she found hard to tell him so. This was when fear shook her, took her. What if her brothers went to war, again, and died? What if her father died before she could say goodbye?

Her wait had been long enough. The autumn leaves had been replaced by white paths of snow. He will not come, now, she thought. He will remain with Moryo, perhaps even another year. Perhaps someone told him that I was here, and he waits for me to leave. She cried, alone, looking out the window at white Beleriand, torn in her need and her loyalties.

She left.

One morning, without thinking, she left. The hooves of her horse were drumming soft notes on the path that led to the forest. Drum, drum, drum, clipetty clop, and passing over a river, crossing a pass, she went, back to Gondolin, back to her brother. Perhaps she was really seeking home, times of innocence where love and loyalty were not in conflict. Perhaps she was crying as she crossed into Nan Elmoth. She was lost. Lost in her body, lost in her soul, lost in her path.

The man came. Lurking at first in the shadows, observing. She was a lone woman. It would be so easy to take her down, he thought. Aredhel's horse fretted. She readied her bow, making a sound of soothing for her mare. Female, so she was, but not harmless. Like her illicit beloved, Ar-Feinel was a hunter, accomplished, her hand on her bow was assured.

"Teli-ai?" Who comes?

She was listening, alert, focused for the preemptive strike.

"Please don't shoot," came the voice, sweet and soothing. "I mean you no harm."

"Then show yourself," she replied, harshly. "Show yourself now, before you die like venison on a stake."

He showed himself.

He was not Celegorm the Fair. He was dark-haired, smaller than any Noldorin she had known. Sindarin. His hands were up in the air in a sign of peace.

"Who are you? Why are you lurking in the shadows and following me?" Her tone was harsh, murderous.

"I am the lord of these woods," he said, calmly. "And you are trespassing, Lady. Put down your weapons, I will not harm you."

"I only wish to return home. I will not hunt your beasts, I will not settle. I shall pass and begone, and you will never have known I was here."

"You will pass and be gone, but I know already that you are here," he replied quietly. "It is late, come and be rested in my home this night. Tomorrow, you will leave again."

She looked at him, defiantly, dubiously. She had not the talent to see in men`s heart as Artanis did - and for perhaps the first time, Aredhel found herself wishing for the counsel of her annoying little cousin.

"And if I refuse your hospitality?"

"Then I will be forever wounded, beautiful lady," he replied with a charming smile.

She was tired, she did not know better. She went.

His name was Eol, and he ruled Nan Elmoth as a solitary vigil. He had been there since before the Noldor had come to Beleriand. He did not make any mention of his family, or of his lineage. His home was small, but cozy. He took the horse away, to bring her to the stables, leaving her alone in the humble surroundings.

She walked around, finding him so disarming in the poverty and solitude in which he lived. He came back, and offered her food and shelter this night. She ate, gratefully, the sober broth and bread. She drank carefully the thimble of wine he offered her. Her body swooned. "I think I might go to bed," she murmured sleepily.

Eöl's smile was not quite a smirk. "Then sleep, beautiful Aredhel, and be rested." And so he took her to his cot, and she lay, inanimate in unnatural sleep.

When she awoke, she was not sure what had happened, or how long had passed. He was there again.

"Good morning, my love," he said with tenderness. "Have you well rested?"

"My love, sir?" she gasped in shock. "How very familiar of you, when you've only ever been my host for a night."

"You speak nonsense again, my wife," he said sedately. "We have been living here a long time together."

"We have?" She stood, frustratedly. "Let me see to my horse, and be gone. You speak nonsense."

"Go see for yourself," he replied calmly. "There is no horse here."

She went, and cried bitterly, pooled on the stable floor when she saw indeed that her horse was nowhere to be seen. She would not go back inside the house, and so she stayed in the hay, wiping sour tears off her face.

"Come now, it is late, my wife," he said calmly, if firmly. "I have made dinner for us, but tomorrow, you must work again. Your laziness is unbearable."

He grasped her arm, firmly, to tug her back inside.

"I am not your wife, let me go!" She resisted, tugged back, but his hand took a hold on her hair and he took her inside, crying in pain and protesting, her arm bruised from his grip.

He threw her on the cot. "I hate you, I am not your wife!" He did the deed. "Let me go, my brothers will kill you for this!" She lay there, crying, silently begging them all to come for her, to save her. All of her brothers, her cousins, all the men she loved and trusted, and now this, pain, unbearable, between her thighs, and the blood, staining her white dress. She begged Arakàno to come take her, if he could.

Eventually, she fell asleep in her tears.

Months passed. Then years. Ëol demanded his due every day. She gave it without emotion, without pleasure, hating him every single moment of the day, of the night, hating his touches on her skin, his kisses, his voice, his smirk of pride when he returned from hunting. Hating the Sindarin language which she was forced to speak constantly. Hating the woods. Hating the soil. Hating sex, yet submitted to his will.

From seeing him and only him, she began to relate to Eöl. To hate him less, to want his company. Solitude took a hold on her, and she forgot who she was, the White Lady of the Noldor, in love with Celegorm, expected in Gondolin. She became Aredhel, Eöl's submitted, obedient wife. Ireth slowly died to be replaced by another, soulless and joyless, barely an animation of the shell she occupied.

One day she fell with child. Lòmion. Maeglin. Her baby. He did not seem to care. In secret, she taught the child to speak Quenya. In secret, she started remembering who she was. In secret, she was born again.

It would soon be time to leave.


	9. Staircases

They were always looking at him.

Lomiòn. Maeglin. The son of Eöl was what they should have called him, if they had been only half as honest as they claimed.

The only one who seemed to know his name was Idril. It came easy, in her mouth. "Lomiòn," she would say, "fetch me my quill, please?"

And he would fetch it, gladly, hoping for a chance that their fingers might brush as he handed it over to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. If they did, he would feel a little tingling thrill going along his spine. If they did not, he would wait eagerly for another occasion.

He was hooked on those moments like one is on ale, on wine, on mead, on power. He was addicted to his cousin Idril Celebrindal in the extreme.

Maeglin's palms were sweaty as he waited in the hall to speak to his uncle. His father? No, that was too easy. He knew all too well who his father was. It had take him weeks to prepare his argument. He had thought of everything, studied Turgon's habits, picked out the moment when he might be more amicable to his proposition.

It was just after the evening meal, when Turgon was listening to music in his study, up atop the highest tower of Gondolin. As if even the universe conspired to make this difficult. Maeglin had never had any love for heights.

His stomach sunk to his heels as he went up the endlessly winding stairs. Idril, he had to remind himself, this is for her. And for her, to be with her, to experience that thrill again, and again, and again, I would do anything.

The answer came immediately, half-way through his demonstration.

"One does not marry kin so near," the king told him, as one does a child not to play with fire.

At the top of the stairs, Eöl's son contemplated his descent.

Maeglin had never had much of a love for heights.


	10. Dark News on the Swan

Then the news came. They were in the Havens of Sirion, by then, and the news came to her by Elwing herself.

Galadriel listened to the tale with growing grief and anger. Dior's stubbornness (and ho, how little she could blame him), his death and the sack of Doriath itself, how the girl had fled with the Silmaril, escaping in extremis both captivity and death.

There was unrest, now, in the Havens, and she stood out on the peer, looking at the Teleri fleet with tearful eyes. Elwing had asked her to look into the mirror to determine the fates of her little brothers, but nothing had been less certain. A lone road lay ahead of them, but she could not tell if life or death was laying in wait.

She had spoken to Tuor and Idril. She had warned them both that the Sons of Feänor may come lurking. Even if Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were dead, three were still alive, and it was enough to feel concern.

Celeborn came forth, lay a hand on her shoulder, soothingly. "Alatariel, you can do nothing more than you have already done," he said, quietly.

"It is not enough," she whispered, and the threatening tears fell on her face. Was she crying for Dior, Turco, the little lost princes? Was she crying for all the lost ones that were slowly disapearing like a long and painful rosary of loss? Most likely.

"We will leave," she heard Celeborn say, and she knew she could not deny him. "The Isle of Balar awaits, and Cirdan will receive us well."

She turned, then, and buried her face in her husband's shoulder, crying still, so very quietly.

She wanted to say, he promised me.

She wanted to say, once, he was my friend.

She wanted to say, too many people are dead, why can't I follow after them?

But instead she only cried, disconsolate and quiet, dignified and steady. If she could do nothing to stop this, at least she would live. Perhaps later, her time of absolution would come.


	11. Emotional Adultery in the Second Age

He was gone, now. Galadriel stood at the window, day-dreaming.

Her hand touched the Elessar absently - Tyelepinquar had such talent, it instilled fear in her. Over the valleys of Eregion, she let her gaze wander as one lone tear slipped down her cheek.

The words she had uttered resounded in her mind like vengeful bells. _Nothing you can do will make me love you, Kinslayer' s son._ She saw the hurt in his heart, and it reverberated deep within her bones. She did not know what else to do.

She loved him, deeply - part of her knew he deserved nothing of it. But to tell him she loved him in return, to allow herself to admit this affection for the son of Curufinwë, the darkest, the craftiest, the most detestable of all the Sons of Fëanor.... she could not.

Not now, not ever. Not when the memory of the words that announced her brother's death were still so fresh, even centuries into her mourning.

_Findàrato Felagund is no more - he perished in defeating Draugluin, lone as the sons of Fëanor took Nargothrond._

She had felt it - there was no-one else to hate, no-one else to blame. All dead, save for Maglor whom she never saw again. Even as she stirred these darkening thoughts, the impulse to go after her cousin ran deep in her veins - almost untamably.

She was at the door, giving in, when her husband entered.

"My Lady." He opens her arms, and she nestles in them. "Alatariel, what is it?"

She looks up, sighs. "It is nothing, Meleth, nothing at all. I am only mourning, is all."

He caresses her back, gently. "It has been centuries, my love. Will you not give up your fantasies of Valinor, and focus on here, and now?"

She does not answer - her eyes are gentle but sorrowful, still. His eyes trail on her skin, on the delicate collarbone of her tall and slender frame, until he notices the jewel. "He was here."

She speaks gently. "He was."

"He gave you this. Why?" Celeborn's tone is almost harsh.

"He would try to cheer my heart with the magic of his Craft." Oh, brave, brave heart.

"He should not give you such things, when you are mated. It is not just."

She sighs. "I know. I told him so." It's quiet.

"You regret this," he says, quietly - too quietly. It's not a question.

"I do not. I only wish to do what is right." Gently, almost submitted. "I love you, Teleporno. Do you not see it?"

His face closes up. "You love him as well."

She shakes her head, and lies. "I do not."

He looks at her, lets her go, walks to the door. "When you admit the truth, perhaps, we will talk. Until then, I will be in Lòrinand."

She watches him go, and sighs. She knows she will follow. She knows she will lie again. In the waters, she sees doom coming, and yet she does not know how to stop it, and her heart is heavier for it.

"If only you had been born earlier, Tyelpinquar...." She murmurs it with true emotion as another tear falls on her cheek over the darkening landscape.


	12. The Secret Worship

When they came to Lorinand, Galadriel took to the woods immediately. It was not Valinor, no, but it was something close to it. Walking with her feet bare in the rustle of golden leaves, she felt more at peace than she had in a long time. There were nights, even, where she did not feel so strongly the call of the sea, and almost could imagine that she would end her days gladly, in Lorien.

Then the day came, and she felt wistful again, condemned to fade in the dawn of the Age of Men. Celeborn would come, at times, and try to speak to her, but there was nothing that could make her smile, save when she planted the Mallorn saplings.

Then, her hands in the earth, her white gown soiled by her work, she would smile, sadly, wistfully. Then, as she planted something that would flourish well after the Eldar had faded, her smile widened and her tears flowed, secretly.

In her mind, Artanis repeated to herself the litany of names, each an evocation of those who had left her. In her heart, there was a name, secret and forbidden, which made her lips quiver with sadness. If only they'd had time...

And then she would be done, and stand, and smile politely to her attendants. Then, she would be no longer Artanis, but Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, old, and cold, and mysterious beyond compare.


End file.
